


Reason for All Things, A

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Humor, Other - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2004-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-23 09:16:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3762655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A humorous look at an AU Valinor's 'natural defenses' against an all-too-familiar threat., and the answer to an age-old question. A few familiar Elf-lords air some grievances, and the Star-Kindler saves the day. Features mainly Maedhros, Fingon, and Finrod, with appearances by Finarfin, Fingolfin, Glorfindel, Ecthelion, Turgon, Manwe, Varda, and three OFCs. Contains Mild Language, Implied Violence, and Implied Slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Return of the Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

The sun was shining overhead when she left the bookstore, swinging a small sack from her pink paint-tipped fingers. The impractically tiny bookbag she wore was much too small to carry her purchase. The thick soles of her sandals _clop-clop-clopped_ on the sidewalk as she made her brief way home.

Once secreted away in her movie-poster-bedecked room, she carefully slid her purchase from its plastic sack and held it up to the light. It was _The Silmarillion,_ by J.R.R.Tolkien. “The Epic History of the Elves,” she read the subtitle aloud. It was too delicious. She’d only recently found out that the guy who wrote _Lord of the Rings_ had written another book about Elves, and so of course she’d anxiously awaited the weekend when she could go buy a copy. The bookstore was a large one and had about five different editions to choose from, so she’d naturally gotten an illustrated one. There was nothing like pictures of sexy elfies, was there?

Of course, none of them would be as cute as Orli, she reminded herself, but she was running out of material for her fanfics. Maybe _The Silmarillion_ would give her some inspiration! “Well, no time like the present!” she said aloud to no one in particular. Cracking the book for the first time, she flipped to chapter one and began to read.

 

_  
Meanwhile, in another reality…  
_  
“Check-mate!”

“Blast!”

In the light and airy halls of the city of Tirion, there was a brief smattering of laughter and good-natured ribbing. On one of the many balconies, two figures were seated at a small table on opposite sides of the field of battle. The smaller figure, raven-headed, lithe, and lean, was smiling triumphantly at his bested opponent. The other, slightly taller with a long red braid trailing over one shoulder, gave his nemesis a doom-laden frown, a look which in days gone by had meant death to all who gazed upon it, but that was in the past. He was able to hold his frown for approximately three seconds before he, too, broke out into a smile and laughed lightly with the other.

“You improve all the time, coz,” the redhead said generously, pushing his chair back from the table.

“I certainly get enough practice,” his opponent replied. “Thanks to you, Maedhros.”

The Fëanorian snorted lightly. There was little enough else to do in safe and boring Valinor, but he didn’t dare say so aloud. Better to be content with what one had. The truth was, Maedhros and Fingon were almost evenly matched, and chess with his cousin was always exciting to him. One never knew what tricks Fingon had up his sleeve. The constantly underestimated son of Fingolfin was forever surprising everyone.

By unspoken agreement, the two began setting up the board for another game. This last one had gone on for three days, but it had been one of the more exciting ones, and the question of ultimate victory had been very much in doubt up until the very end.

“Shall we break for a repast, or are you in a hurry to be humiliated again?” Fingon asked with a wink.

Maedhros tried another intimidating look that would have sent lesser Elves running for cover, but his cousin was one hundred percent unaffected, except by amusement. “Hmph. I would only be humiliated to be bested by an inferior opponent,” he mock-growled to his foolishly grinning friend, whose grin spread impossibly wider at the subtle compliment, the only kind Maedhros was like to give. “But I could be persuaded to dine.”

“Then let us be off! The sooner we sup, the sooner I can beat you again!” Fingon clapped his cousin’s shoulder good-naturedly. Rather than pass through the airy halls, the pair leapt lightly from the balcony to a walkway below, from thence to make their way to the kitchens of the palatial House of Finarfin.

They had only gotten a quarter of the way down the walk when Maedhros froze, and began looking about him uneasily. Fingon noticed his companion was no longer beside him and turned back. “Coz?”

Maedhros held a finger to his lips, urging quiet. He closed his eyes and reached out with his senses, trying to discover the source of the sudden unease which had come upon him. The very wind whispered of danger, and the voices of the trees were moaning in dismay. Suddenly, Maedhros’ eyes popped open, and he grasped at his cousin.

“It’s happening again!” he whispered, his voice as close to terror-stricken as Fingon had ever heard it.

“No! Are you sure?” the raven-headed Elf asked, dismayed.

“We must tell the High King!” Maedhros muttered as he took off running down the pathway, with Fingon closely dogging his heels.

 

They re-entered the palace and dashed down the covered walkway, heading for Finarfin’s study where they hoped to find the king. Suddenly Fingon stopped. “Look,” he murmured, gesturing at the sky. “We’re too late.”

Overhead, the flawlessly blue vault of the heavens over Valinor was beginning to turn an ominous black.

Grey eyes met grey as Fingon and Maedhros exchanged an anguished glance. They were so caught up in the moment that neither heard the soft slap of leather-clad feet approaching at a sprint from the adjoining hallway, and therefore were equally surprised when a golden-haired Elf dashed madly around the blind corner and ran full-tilt into the other two.

Maedhros and Fingon both recovered from the collision much quicker than the new-comer, and grasped the surprised Elf’s arms to keep him from crashing to the ground. “Fingon! Maedhros!” he panted. “You saw it?”

The other two nodded grimly. “I was on my way to tell Father,” the golden-haired Elf explained as he turned towards the study doors.

“As were we,” replied Fingon, falling into step behind him as Finrod threw open the double-doors of the High King’s private study without bothering to knock. Maedhros was barely two steps behind his cousins as the three Elves swept hurriedly into the chamber.

If they were hoping to warn the King, they were too late. The tall and elegant figure of Finarfin could clearly be seen standing in one of the large windows that graced the room, the sweep of his pale hair reflecting the dying light. Beside him, another figure, remarkably alike save for his ebony locks where his companion was golden, stood in similar pose.

Neither turned around at the sound of the three younger Elves entering the chamber, but watched the steadily darkening sky. “Father? Uncle?” said Finrod uncertainly. “Is there aught we can do?”

Finally the High King turned around to grace his son and his nephews with a sorrowful look. “I’m afraid not,” he said mournfully. “It is too late to hide, and we cannot fight. All we can do now is hope for the best, and pray that Valinor’s natural defenses will protect us.” Fingolfin was nodding his head in agreement.  
  
Outside, the wind was picking up, and thunder clouds were beginning to form.

Fingolfin regarded his son and nephews sadly. “Go on about your business, boys, and try to stay calm. There’s no point in fretting over the worst until it is upon us.”

“I believe that is _my_ line,” a voice said sourly from the open doorway. Fingon had to grin slightly as his brother Turgon entered with a wry look upon his face. “I take it I arrive much too late?”

Finarfin sighed heavily. Ordinarily, being High King was no great burden in this land of bliss and plenty. But when dangers like these arose, he wondered if it was worth it at all. Being High King was singularly useless when he couldn’t protect his people from the only threat they faced.

“Your Majesty,” Turgon said uneasily, hesitant to intrude on the king’s reverie. “Sire, they are beginning to panic in the streets. Everyone can read the signs, and after what happened last time...” The Lord of Gondolin trailed off as he shuddered at the memory.

The King looked up. “Very well. There is nothing we can do to avert what is coming, but we shall not have a riot on our hands. I want you four,” he nodded at the younger Elves, “to try to keep some order in the streets. Get everyone inside, and keep them calm. Brother, you and I are going to Taniquetil.”

The Elves bowed in acquiescence to the king, and hurried off to their tasks.

 

 

 

Outside, chaos reigned. The sky overhead was nearly back, and the wind was roaring. Elves ran to and fro in the streets, going nowhere and doing nothing but making a great deal of noise and confusion. A few of the more experienced Elves were attempting to bring order to the crowd, but their shouting was drowned out by the rising hysteria gripping the populace.

As the four cousins left the palace, they saw immediately that the panicking crowd could pose an even greater threat to its own safety than the threat looming in the darkened sky. The four princes immediately moved off to restore some order to the melee.

“Everyone stay calm! There’s no need to panic!”

Turgon spied two of his former captains perched on a wall, trying to shout down the wailing crowd. Glorfindel and Ecthelion were attempting with little success to get the crowds out of the streets. He jumped up on the wall to join them, smiling at their relieved faces. “My lord!” said Glorfindel. “My lord, it is pandemonium! Everyone remembers what happened the last time…” The golden Elf shuddered at the memory.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Turgon tried for himself to get the Elves to calm and disperse. Fingon, Finrod, and Maedhros began moving through the crowd in a similar effort, forcefully shoving Elves who didn’t give way and herding them towards their homes. A few others had the presence of mind to help, but it was a painfully slow process to get the streets cleared. Maedhros found himself wishing, not for the first time, that his brother were present. No one ignored the voice of Maglor the mighty.

Finally, the streets were clear of all but a few stragglers and some purposefully dashing about messengers. Turgon had taken his two former captains to try to quell the panic in other parts of the city and the remaining three cousins took off in the opposite direction to do the same.

Maedhros’ mood was very dark indeed when they finally decided they had done all they could. They hurried back to the palace to hunker down and weather the storm, stopping to speak briefly with messengers they encountered along the way.

“I don’t know why _they_ all make such a fuss,” Maedhros muttered mostly to himself. “It’s not as though anything were going to happen to _them.”_

Fingon patted his cousin’s shoulder sympathetically. “Everyone goes a little crazy when these things happen,” he said vaguely by way of explanation. He missed whatever the Fëanorian muttered in reply.

Finrod lead the way through the palace to his private rooms where the three Elves would try to hold out as long as they could. He could only pray that his father and the Valar might somehow work a miracle and prevent the impending disaster. Fingon sank gratefully into a large chair, but Maedhros continued to mutter darkly to himself. Finrod felt a great deal of pity for his poor cousin, but he was worried for himself as well.

Finally, Finrod broke the silence. “Be easy,” he said softly to Maedhros, “Surely it will not be as bad as last time.”

“That’s right, it can always be worse!” he snapped in reply to the golden-haired elf.

Finrod was not offended; he knew the terrible pressure that Maedhros must be feeling at the moment. Somehow, when these situations arose, the red-haired elf always seemed to get the worst of it. The Valar knew he’d seen enough torment in his former life, but it was nothing compared to the black menace that descended from the skies. Maedhros had paid for the crimes of his past; he deserved a little peace.

The black-haired Elf slung a brotherly arm around Maedhros’ shoulder. “Try to relax. Whatever happens, happens. And chances are I’ll be right there with you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of!” Maedhros said, his expression sneering but with the tiniest hint of humor in his voice. His cousins knew how hard these situations were for him and were kindly trying to cheer him up, but there was little to be done.

“Oh!” said Fingon in mock-disdain. “I’m really all that bad, am I!?”

“No,” Maedhros muttered, all trace of humor gone from his voice. “I don’t know how I’d get through it without you.”

The mood was getting dark again in a hurry, so Fingon rushed into the breach. “No, neither do I. But I’d sure like to find out!” He grinned at his cousin, hoping for a smile.

“Yes, it’s fine for you to talk, Fingon,” said Finrod. “You always get to do something heroic.”

“You’ve got no room to talk, yourself, Finrod,” Maedhros pointed out. “You’re the heroic one. Why to I always have to be the bad guy?”

“You’re not always the bad guy!” Fingon protested.

“No,” Maedhros agreed. “I’m not always the Evil Maedhros. Sometimes I’m the Tormented Maedhros, or the Sex Slave Maedhros, Gutterslut Maedhros or Bondage Maedhros…”

Both Finrod and Fingon suppressed a shudder.

“Personally,” said the golden-haired Elf, “I was always fond of Baby Maedhros.”

It was Maedhros’ turn to shudder.

 

_  
On Taniquetil…  
_  
“Brother…I hope…you’ll shoot me…if I ever…get so pretentious…I have to have…so many stairs!” Finarfin panted as he surmounted the tenth-to-last flight of steps.

Fingolfin was too out of breath to answer but nodded his head. He, too, had noticed that the higher folks rose in life, the more stairs they felt they needed. The main stronghold at Formenos had over seven thousand steps.

The two Elf-lords had come at a run as far as they were able, but now at they neared the summit of Taniquetil, the air was growing thin and their strength was giving out. “I just hope…it’s worth it!” Finarfin mumbled. If even Manwë was unable to help them…

The long climb continued.

 

 

_  
Back in Tirion…  
_  
“Come on, you don’t have it all that bad,” Finrod chided Maedhros. “It could always be worse.”

“I become rather weary of hearing that.” Maedhros’ voice held a warning note which his cousin blithely ignored.

“Really, it only happens to you so much because you’re so popular! People remember you, they admire you,” the golden-haired Elf informed him.

“Then I would rather have remained forgotten and despised, as once I was!” Maedhros’ mood was growing more sour by the moment.

Fingon knew better than to intervene at this point as Finrod began to grow angry in his turn.

“I don’t know what you are complaining about! Everyone speaks well of you now, Maedhros. At least you are remembered for the way you lived. For most of the rest of us, the most remarkable thing most people remember about us is the way we died!” Finrod pointed out. “You are remembered for your deeds!”

“Deeds that I have paid for many times over!” Maedhros retorted. It was times like these he could almost repent of his hard-won redemption.

“Well, at least you…you…you have never been made to have sex with a werewolf!” Finrod shouted at last.

Maedhros and Fingon were silent. Finrod had broken their unspoken agreement never to speak of the horrible things that happened when the dark clouds formed over Valinor. But now that the silence had been broken, Maedhros was ready to have it out once and for all.

“No,” said Maedhros slowly. “No, I have never had sex with a werewolf. I have had sex with Morgoth, with Sauron, with their innumerable lackeys, with orcs, trolls, balrogs, with my own brothers, my cousin, with my f-f-f-father…”

“Stop!” Fingon cried. “ _Please,_ stop.” He passed a trembling hand over his brow. “I think we can all agree, these situations are not pleasant for anyone. There is no point in arguing whose lot among us is worst. Besides, it could be much worse.”

Both of Fingon’s cousins stared at him with black expressions, as if to ask him how that might be.

“It could be worse,” he repeated, lowing his voice and whispering to them softly, “You could be Legolas.”

Neither could argue the point. Maedhros had only faced fangirls a handful of times, but from those few experiences, he knew he would rather face a horde of sex-starved orcs than one of sex-starved fangirls that were always chasing, capturing, and ravishing the unfortunate Legolas.

That immediately cleared the air of any arguments and the three cousins were friends once more. Finrod and Maedhros both apologized, if somewhat stiffly, and the Fëanorian was persuaded to have a seat. There was little they could do, except wait and pray for the best. But it was difficult not to think about all the horrible possibilities now that they had been mentioned aloud. Maedhros still felt he got picked on an inordinate amount, but there was no point in discussing it.

 

As they watched over the next half-hour, the sky grew more and more threatening.

“She is getting closer,” Finrod whispered. The three cousins were now seated side-by-side on the golden Elf’s bed, with Maedhros tucked protectively between them. Despite their earlier words, they all knew that the Fëanorian was most likely to be attacked, and his cousins meant to prevent it if they were able. Meanwhile Maedhros was busy tormenting himself with all the horrible possibilities. _Fangirl…fangirl…what if it’s a fangirl…?_

  
_  
At the summit of Taniquetil…finally…  
_  
“My Lord!”

Fingolfin and Finarfin bowed low in reverence before Manwë, trying not to be too obvious about catching their labored breaths. The winds at the summit of Taniquetil had blown their impractically long hair into most un-lordly disarray, and they were trying fruitlessly to smooth it. The Lord of the Valar smiled in greeting and bade them approach. Beside him, Varda also welcomed the two brothers.

“Welcome, lords. It is well that you have come.” She smiled slightly in greeting.

Finarfin and Fingolfin began to grin foolishly, shuffling their feet and muttering. Manwë had to conceal an entirely inappropriate grin. Though both Elves had been married for thousands and thousands of years, even the smallest smile from the Star-Kindler was enough to make even High Kings blush and stammer like Elflings.

“Lord Manwë,” Finarfin finally began. “I presume you know why we have come. Valinor is under assault!”

“Yes, we are aware,” Manwë replied gravely.

After a few minutes of waiting politely for him to continue, Fingolfin finally said, “And?”

“And?”

“And, what will you do about it?” Fingolfin said, flinching a little at his own presumption.

“Do? I shall do nothing.”

Finarfin and Fingolfin exchanged a glance. That was an awful lot of stairs to have climbed for nothing. The High King felt perilously close to some very un-lordly tears.

Fingolfin figured that if Manwë was going to smite him, he would have done it already, so he hazarded to ask, “But my Lord, why not? Our people are under attack!”

“Intervention, in this case, is unnecessary. I have foreseen it,” Manwë said calmly, generously overlooking Fingolfin’s impertinence.

The two brothers exchanged another glance, wondering if they dared to question further.

“Perhaps you should explain, my love,” said Varda, coming to the Elf-lords’ timely rescue. They smiled at her gratefully.

“Very well. You see, my friends, while this kind of attack is occurring more and more often these days, I happen to know that this one will be quite unsuccessful. I am aware of the strengths and weaknesses of our opponent, and I know that she will not be able to break through Valinor’s natural defenses.” Manwë smiled regally at the two Elf-lords who stood with somewhat bewildered expressions at the foot of his throne. “Just watch, and you will see what I mean.”

Overhead, the sky grew impossibly darker, and the wind howled with fury.

 

_  
Tirion…  
_  
“It will be any minute now,” Finrod said softly. The city looked as though a hurricane were howling through. Even the messengers had disappeared, seeking cover. Maedhros insisted on watching from the balcony, and his cousins stood at his side, gripping his arms as though to prevent him from vanishing.

The Fëanorian sighed. It was all too unfair. If the Valar did not intervene, chances were that he was about to be swept away and hurled into some obscene world where he would either be forced to have sex with yet another demon or be relentlessly pursued by some hopelessly boring self-insert. And he had the feeling it was going to be the self-insert. The black sky was usually associated with that type, heralding the ‘miraculous arrival’ of ‘the mysterious girl’ whom he would eventually be forced to bed. And he could do nothing but stand there and watch it!

“Enough!” Maedhros yelled, startling his cousins. “I’ve had enough. I’m not going to wait around to be dragged off into another nightmare! I won’t do it!”

“Maedhros, calm down,” Fingon urged him.

“I won’t calm down! I have had it with these demented females dragging me through six kinds of hell, and I am tired of doing nothing about it!” Shrugging free of his cousins, Maedhros ran out onto the balcony, ripping open his tunic and baring his chest to the storm. He leapt up onto the railing, raising his voice to be heard over the howling of the wind.  
 _  
“Here I am, you crazy bitch! Take me now! COME AND GET ME!!”  
_  
Fingon and Finrod stared in awe at their cousin. He had finally snapped, again. Maedhros was horrifyingly beautiful in his wrath, his impotent fury transforming him into a great and terrible specter of dread, too captivating to turn away from despite the very real danger he posed. Without thought for self-preservation, Fingon and Finrod leapt forward and grasped Maedhros’ outstretched arms mere seconds before he hurled himself from the balcony. Despite being two-against-one, a desperate if brief scuffle ensued.

Suddenly, just as it appeared that all three Elves might take the plunge, the wind died out completely in a matter of seconds. As quickly, the sky was blue and calm once more.

Too startled to keep a mind on their balance, the three Elves tumbled rather ungracefully from the railing. Fortunately, the Valar were smiling on them that day, and they fell towards the room, rather than the streets eight stories below. Unfortunately, for Finrod, anyway, being the lightest he naturally ended up on the bottom of the pile, with the combined weight of his cousins nearly driving him into the floorboards.

 

 

_  
On Taniquetil…  
_  
Finarfin and Fingolfin watched in amazement as normal weather patterns reemerged in a matter of seconds. They gaped in awe as the sky once more turned a peaceful and serene blue.

“She gave up…” Finarfin said in amazement. “She gave up!” He looked at Manwë. “Why did she give up?”

Manwë favored the High King with a smile as though he were a small and rather pitiful child. He graced them with an explanation. “To all things, there is a reason. The Creator must have foreseen this danger when He made our world, long ago. This is why _The Silmarillion_ is so difficult to read. It ensures that those who seek Valinor with ill-purpose in their hearts will stray and become lost.”

“So _that’s_ why the first few chapters are so boring!” Fingolfin cried.

Varda smiled and nodded. “Yes. It prevents the zealous teenaged fangirls of _Lord of the Rings_ from overrunning Valinor as they have Middle-Earth. Very few succeed in passing the leaguer of _The Silmarillion,_ and that is why so few of them have come here.”

Finarfin, suppressing the urge to do a rather un-lordly Happy Dance, grinned at his brother. “See, what have I always told you? Trust in the Creator, and all things will come right in the end!”

Fingolfin, already thinking about the three-hundred and thirty-one flights of stairs they would have to pass to get back home, punched the High King solidly in the arm. “It was _your_ idea to come here!” he grumpily reminded his brother.

 

 

_  
Meanwhile, in the Real World…  
_  
“Oh, hell with this!” she cried, slamming the book angrily shut.

For the past three hours, she had struggled to get into _The Silmarillion._ It was hopeless…something was holding her back almost like a barrier. The book was pointless, boring, and dull. She couldn’t even tell what the stupid story was supposed to be about. It was like reading the frickin’ _Bible,_ for crying out loud! It was even more boring than _The Lord of the Rings,_ which she had faithfully skimmed (at least, all the Legolas parts) after the seventeenth flame on her first fic.

Now she had blown a week’s allowance and wasted half her Saturday on that stupid thing. Oh, well. Maybe her squirrelly older sister could use it. She _loved_ dull stuff like that. The more boring, the better.

Barging through the closed door of her sister’s room without bothering to knock, she hurled _The Silmarillion_ to the floor at her sister’s feet where she was seated at her computer.

“Here,” she said generously. “You can have _that_.” Turning on her heel, she flounced out of the room. She needed to get to her own computer – despite that godawful book, she’d just had a great idea for a brand new Legomance. In it, she would travel to Middle-Earth in the form of a beautiful silver-haired half-elf, reclaim her lost royal heritage, win the Ring War and the love of a certain Mirkwood elf…

The End…or is it?


	2. Let's Get Slashy!

Cautiously, as though it might be booby-trapped, the elder sister picked up the poor book that had landed at her feet. A few pages were bent, but aside from that it looked brand-new. It was _The Silmarillion,_ by J.R.R.Tolkien. She’d read it quite a while ago, and had even written a few fics about it. Flipping idly through the pages, she re-read a few of her favorite parts. Suddenly, unbidden to her mind’s eye there came the image of a pile of three beautiful elves, one dark, one fair, and one with red hair. Grinning somewhat wickedly at this sudden inspiration, she turned to her computer and opened a new Word document. Balancing _The Silmarillion_ open on her knees, she began to write…

 

_  
Meanwhile, back in another reality…  
_  
“Did we win?” Fingon asked in a dazed voice. The top of Maedhros’ head had connected solidly with the back of his during their tumble from the railing. The weight of his cousin on his back was slightly uncomfortable, but fortunately he had landed on something soft.

Wincing at the pain in his own head, Maedhros hazarded a glance around. He was still in Tirion, and the skies again were blue. The streets were again in chaos, but this time the Elves were cheering in celebration, rather than screaming in terror.

“It appears so. What happened? Why am I not writhing in agony at this moment?” the red-headed Elf asked in a somewhat detached voice.

“Not everything is about you, you know.” Fingon thought about it for a moment. It was obvious now that a self-insert had been trying to cross over into their world, but something had stopped her. “Of course! The natural defenses must have kicked in! She couldn’t get through!”

Maedhros must have hit his head harder than he thought, for Fingon was making no sense. “Explain, please.”

“Obviously, she couldn’t get past the first few chapters of _The Silmarillion_. She must have gotten bored and given up. They’re written that way to make it inaccessible to teenage _Lord of the Rings_ fangirls.”

The Fëanorian was vaguely offended by the thought that it was sheer boredom and not his impressive shouting that had driven their foe into submission, but this was a victory he would take any way he could get. “I see. How is Finrod?”

It was not until that moment that Fingon realized the soft thing he had landed on _was_ Finrod. He, too, must have struck his head as they landed. “He appears to be unconscious.”

“I see.”

Limp with relief and too dazed to move, the three princes lay on the floor of the balcony, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

 

 

_  
Taniquetil…  
_  
Varda bowed graciously to the High King and his brother as they took their leave of the Queen of the Stars. It was always nice when the Elves came to visit. It happened all too rarely nowadays, however, since it seemed like their front walk had a few hundred extra steps added every time she turned around. It was something she needed to remember to speak to Manwë about…

The two Elves had bidden farewell to the Lord of the Valar and were about to embark on the first flight of steps when something very curious happened. The clear blue of the sky began to turn a lurid shade of red, reminiscent of sunset but somehow, more… _erotic._

Fingolfin and Finarfin halted their departure to observe this new phenomenon, and a trace of dismay showed on Manwë’s noble face. “Oh, dear,” he murmured under his breath.

“My love?” Varda asked. “Do you know what is happening? Is she trying another tactic to get in?”

“No, it’s not the same one. This one is different, more powerful, more experienced…” Manwë swallowed a rather un-lordly gulp. “I’m afraid I’ll have no power over her…”

Finarfin and Fingolfin had come running back to the throne of Manwë in distress. “Lord Manwë?” they asked.

The Lord of the Valar shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry my friends. Nothing can be done to stop this one… She is far more powerful than an attempted self-insert. It’s…a slasher.”

Fingolfin’s jaw dropped open. “Oh, _no!”_ he groaned. “I left my son alone with Maedhros!” The Elf-lord squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face with his hands.

Even Manwë looked a little distressed at this announcement, but Finarfin tried to cheer his brother up. “There, there,” he said, patting the shaking shoulder. “I’m sure everything will be alright. After all, Finrod is with them.”

Fingolfin looked very closely at his younger brother. The Valar knew he loved him, but sometimes his brother could be more dense than the flies over Midgewater. Very slowly and carefully, he asked, “What did you say?”

Finarfin sighed impatiently; his brother could be so trying. “I said that Finrod is…with…” He trailed off. A horrible thought was beginning to form in his mind. “Finrod. Is. With. _Them!”_

Without a backwards glance over his shoulder, Finarfin took off at a dead sprint and took the steps leading down away from the summit three at a time. Five flights later, Fingolfin finally caught up with him. Catching his brother by the shoulder, he spun him around and pulled them both to a halt.

“Are you crazy? You’ll kill yourself!”

“But…the slasher… Maedhros… Finrod…”

“Will be long finished with whatever they’re going to do by the time _we_ get there.”

Finarfin had to admit his brother was right. That didn’t make him feel any better, however. They began to trudge slowly down the stairs. “How do you deal with it so calmly?” he asked after a few flights in silence.

“Years of practice,” Fingolfin sullenly replied. Then he turned to his brother with a half-grin. “Want to head down to the pub for a beer?”

Finarfin, who usually preferred wine, needed to mull this over for only the briefest of moments. “Yes. Yes I do. In fact, I think I should like more than one. I think I should like to be drunk. I think I should like to be very drunk.”

Slinging an arm around his younger brother’s shoulders, Fingolfin guided them down the absurdly long and winding Stairs of Taniquetil.

 

_  
But meanwhile, in Tirion…  
_  
The first thing Finrod was aware of was an uncomfortably heavy weight on his chest, and the second was an equally uncomfortable lump on the back of his head. Once he had begun to deal with these discomforts, he became aware of a sensation that wasn’t so discomforting. Someone was softly stroking his cheek and calling his name.

“Finrod… Finrod…” It was the soft, soothing voice of his cousin Fingon.

Although his eyelids felt as though someone had sneakily attached weights to them while he was unconscious, he managed to pry them slowly open…

…to discover himself nose to nose with Fingon, who hovered bare inches over him. Over the black-headed Elf’s shoulder, he could see a fuzzy red blotch that had to be Maedhros. The Fëanorian was sprawled atop Fingon and they both were crushing him. One of them had thoughtfully loosened his clothes for him, however.

“What…happened…?” he blearily asked.

“We fell,” Maedhros answered him very matter-of-factly.

Finrod fixed his cousins in what he hoped was a steely-eyed glare. “You fellows planning to get off me any time soon?”

Fingon regarded his cousin somberly. Funny, but he’d never really paid attention to how truly _beautiful_ Finrod was. His pale blue eyes were like rare sapphirine gems…his silver-kissed blonde hair was like spun gold. The raven-headed Elf couldn’t stop himself from gathering up a fistful of the silky flaxen tresses.

“I hadn’t planned on it…” Fingon purred in a low, sexy voice.

Hold on, _sexy?_ Finrod shook his head as if to clear it. His cousin smiled down at him in an almost… _hungry_ way.

“Did you want me to get off?” Fingon asked in that same soft, dangerous voice.

“Err…I guess not. Not really.” The weight on his body didn’t feel so uncomfortable anymore. In fact, in a few places, it felt downright delicious. He shuddered as Maedhros shifted slightly on top of the pile, gazing down at Finrod over Fingon’s shoulder. If Fingon’s look was predatory, Maedhros’ was downright _feral_.

“I take it this means the self-insert was defeated,” Finrod said, only half-interested in the answer. “I mean, with the sky being that alluring shade of red and all…”

Deciding that Finrod was talking entirely too much, Fingon shut him up in the most efficient way he could think of. Maedhros’ large, warm hands stole over his shoulders and began kneading the flesh, causing a moan to escape the deep kiss he was sharing with Finrod. The Fëanorian’s hands slid lower, and soon all three princes forgot about the color of the sky, and everything else, altogether.

 

Thereafter a very steamy three-way lemon ensued-

 

But _that_ is another story.

 

The End…or is it?


	3. An Elf-lord's Prayer

“…and so, thoroughly exhausted and well-sated, the three princes curled up in each others’ embrace to sleep the sleep of the blissfully satisfied. The end,” she said aloud as she typed the words. There. Finished.

She carefully proofread her fic twice after checking the spelling and made a few minor corrections before uploading it onto FF.net. Taking _The Silmarillion_ under her arm, she went down to the kitchen to gather enough snacks to last the rest of the afternoon, since she’d be glued to her computer checking her e-mail every five minutes to see if anyone had reviewed.

Her mother was just taking cookies out of the oven when the Slasher padded into the kitchen. “Hey, mom,” she greeted the woman.

“Hello, dear. Would you please tell your sister that cookies are ready?”

The Slasher leaned over the railing of the stairs and hollered up to Mary Sue, “COOKIES!”

Mother winced a little, but said, “Thank you, dear.”

Little Mary Sue came bouncing into the kitchen and gathered several cookies up in a napkin to take back upstairs. At a raised eyebrow from her mother, she reported, “I am working on a new fic!” and sashayed back upstairs.

Both the Slasher and her mother flinched visibly at this announcement.

While the Slasher gathered up her own cookies, Mother’s eye happened to fall on the book which her daughter had laid on the counter. _“The Silmarillion,”_ she read. “I haven’t seen this in years!” she exclaimed, picking it up reverently.

Slasher shrugged. “You can borrow it, if you like. I got it from Mary Sue. She hated it.”

Mother frowned a little at this. “Yes, I suppose she would, wouldn’t she? Well, I wouldn’t mind flipping through it again.”

Shrugging again, the Slasher took her pile of cookies and headed back to her room, calling out, “I’ve got to get back to my computer. I’ve just published a new fic and the reviews could start any minute!”

Nodding in understanding, Mother laid _The Silmarillion_ safely aside and transferred the cooling cookies onto a plate. Only after selecting a few choice ones for herself did she take up a comfortable seat in the living room with _The Silmarillion_ in hand. Flipping it open to the point where the story got good, she began to read…

 

 

 

_  
Meanwhile, in an alternate reality…  
_  
It was a gratefully drunken High King who slouched home on his brother’s arm while Ithil rode high overhead. The lurid glow of the unnaturally red sky had begun to dissapate, but traces of the slasher’s spell still hung in the air. Fingolfin, who wasn’t nearly as intoxicated as his brother, decided that at last enough time had passed (and Finarfin was sufficiently inebriated) to brave the palace and see what damage had been done.

Finarfin’s off-key warbling was the only sound in the darkened palace as Fingolfin assisted him to Finrod’s rooms, guided by instinct or scent to the scene of the incident, who could tell? They were still on the first floor of the palace when they encountered company.

“Who goes there?” Fingolfin demanded of the shadowy figures.

The darkness drew back to reveal a grinning Glorfindel, a smirking Ecthelion, and a staggering Turgon.

“It is we, my lord, assisting your son to his chambers,” the dark-haired Elf said respectfully, regardless of his smirk.

“What happened to him?” Fingolfin asked suspiciously.

Turgon turned red and carefully studdied the floorboards at his feet, and made no answer. The other two lordlings of Gondolin merely exchanged another smirk.

“You’re right,” Fingolfin said wearily. “I’d rather not know. Put him to bed, gentlemen, and then show yourselves out.” He gave them an eye which informed them he’d be checking in later to make sure they had left.

“As you wish, my lord.” The two Elves bowed gracefully and each took an arm of the bow-leggedly stumbling Turgon to guide him to his apartments. Fingolfin watched them make their erratic way through the shadows.

Finarfin appeared to find this all very amusing. “What _is_ it with your kids?” he asked in a plainly amazed tone.

Fingolfin gave him an elegantly raised eyebrow that was nearly an open glare. “Hmm. Because you are _so_ proud of _your_ childrens’ choices.”

Finarfin had the wisdom to shut his mouth.

  
The silent chamber of Prince Finrod appeared empty at first glance. But the moonlight entering the room was broken by the silhouete of a dark, humped shape on the balcony. Steeling himself, Fingolfin guided his brother to the open doorway.

Only the raven head lifted at the sound of the Elf-lords’ approach. Fingon graced them with a lazy smile from where he was still firmly sandwiched between his cousins. The Fëanorian snored away in blissful oblivion, and a flattened Finrod looked mostly unconscious.

_Good for him,_ thought Finarfin sourly. It might have been that the slasher’s influence lingered in the air, but Fingon looked just a little too unrepentant for his liking. Good old Fingon. Valiant, reliable Fingon. Fingon who, at the moment, looked like the proverbial cat who shagged the canary.

Fingolfin was opening his mouth in preparation to sternly upbraid the three younger Elves when the wind picked up again. He cast a suspicious eye at the sky, and stifled an un-lordly groan of dismay when the black of night began to take on a distinctly greenish shade.

Finrod and Maedhros were finally stirring, their sleep disturbed by the gathering of energies. The larger Elf rolled stiffly off of Fingon, who as yet had made neither move nor sound. Finrod groaned and shoved weakly at the weight still crushing him to the now-sagging floorboards, and Fingon finally gave way. He shifted off the golden-haired elf and sat – gingerly – next to Maedhros who was now clutching his pounding head in his hands. Slash spells always left him with a headache, once his post-coital buzz disappated.

Finarfin searched for words and came up empty-handed. Finrod pushed himself up in to something resembling a sitting position and hung his head, unable to meet his father’s eyes.

Fingon finally broke the silence. “It appears we have company coming,” he said smoothly, nodding at the greening sky.

Finrod felt like weeping, and burried his head in his arms.

“Any ideas what kind it is?” asked Maedhros softly.

The dark-haired prince shrugged his shoulders. “Looks like it could be another self-insert. Or maybe a hybrid.”

The three princes were tugging on their clothes, covering passion marks and attempting to straighten their hair. Finarfin wisely decided to leave his questions about what happened during the slash episode for another time, and address the matter at hand. From the looks of things, Finrod wouldn’t be walking straight for a week, and there would be time enough to discuss the matter later.

“A hybrid,” said Maedhros sullenly. “Lovely.”

Finrod finally found his voice. “What do we do?” he asked plaintively, distress apparent on his fair face.

“Pray,” was Maedhros’ curt reply. Without preamble, the red-headed Elf clasped his hands together before him and bowed his head, murmuring, “Hail, Varda, full of grace -”

“-save us from this Sue’s embrace…” Fingon and Finrod fervently joined in.

Ignoring the prayers of his son and nephews, Fingolfin studied the sky, attempting to descry what manner of foe they now faced. It was obvious that _The Silmarillion_ had fallen into yet another so-called author’s hands…

 

 

_  
In the Real World…  
_  
Heaving a breathy sigh of nostalgia, Mother paused in her reading long enough to remove herself to her computer. Fanfiction was a guilty passion of hers, and _The Silmarillion_ was a fount of desperation. Balancing the book reverently on her knees, she began to craft her tale. A story of brave deeds, of courageous princes…of true love…

 

 

_  
Tirion upon Túna…  
_  
“Well, that’s done it,” said Fingolfin, a note of grim finallity in his voice. “Whatever she is, she’s crossed over.”

Fingon was still murmuring his prayers to the Valar, knowing it would more than like be in vain. However, as he had not been whisked away to strange dimensions, he nursed a growing hope that the new fanfic would not affect him. Beside him, Finrod’s hands were tightly clasped in a white-knuckled grip, his lips moving in ardent supplication.

The raven-haired elf sighed heavily and turned to Maedhros.

The Fëanorian had vanished.

“I see,” said Fingolfin in a detached-sounding voice. “It’s a Torture-ficcer.”

“ _And_ a self-insert?” said Fingon in amazement. “He’ll never survive!”

Brushing past his father and the High King, Fingon began to pack a small satchel and lay out his riding clothes.

“You’re going after them?” asked Finarfin.

“Of course. I have to,” he replied, carefully ignoring the disapproval in his lord’s voice. “I’ll return when I can!” Fingon called out over his shoulder as he left the room in a rush, leaving the two elder Elf-lords looking at each other.

“Off he goes to be heroic,” Finarfin said lightly. At least it wasn’t another slasher. That squiky thought reminded him that he wanted to question his son, and he turned to the prince to inquire what had befallen him.

Finrod was gone.

“Finrod? Finrod!” The High King’s gaze swept the shadows, desperately hoping to espy his son, but the younger Elf had definitely vanished. Turning to his brother, he asked desperately, “You don’t think they’re together, do you?”

Fingolfin frowned. “No, self-inserts usually hate slash. She must have some other purpose in mind.” Laying a hand on his brother’s shoulder, he said, “Don’t worry. Whatever is happening, I’m sure Fingon will find his way to them.”

 

 

_  
Much later, elsewhere in an alternate reality…  
_  
Finrod peered into the darkness. He could see the glinting eyes of the wolf, watching him. He didn’t know how long he’d been in torment, but he doubted he had strength enough left to fight this one off, especially with his hands in bonds. One moment he’d been relatively safe in his own chambers and wondering what had become of Maedhros, and the next he was neck-deep in a torture fic.

“Hail Varda…”he murmured desperately. Hopefully, any moment now one of his cousins would come barging through the door to rescue him. He dared to glance at the wolf again. It looked hungry, but he wasn’t sure if it was _hungry._ It did not bear contemplating.

Suddenly, the door _did_ burst open. Framed in glorious silhouette, smelling vaguely of floral perfume and dressed in the most outlandish-looking armor imaginable was a very mortal and very mature Mary Sue.

“My love, I have found you!” she cried out, and rushed towards him.

Finrod blanched. “Ma’am, I believe you are looking for my brother!” he cried out hopefully.  
  
The wolf sprang from the shadows at this disturbance and Mature Mary Sue waved her sword at it. The hulking beast crumpled in a whimpering heap at her feet. Mature Mary Sue turned back to the agog Elf-lord and gave his forged bonds a casual tug, ripping them easily from the stonework and earning her a very put-out glare which she blissfully ignored. Finrod found himself dragged forward and his head pillowed on her ample breast as she clasped him in an ardent embrace. Her wedding rings, which she had forgotten to remove, tangled in his hair.

“Have they hurt you my love?” she asked in a sickly-sweet voice.

“Er, no…well, actually yes…” Finrod found himself beginning to simper against his will as the author’s spell took over. “Quite a bit, really…”

“Oh, my poor, poor Finrod!” she cooed, petting him like a puppy.

Struggling to hold out against the urge to fall madly in love with her, Finrod, by sheer dint of will, dragged himself away. “Shall we depart, madame?” he asked, offering her his arm.

“Yes, we must away! For your cousin is in dire peril, and we must to his aid!”

Finrod staggered towards the open doorway, with Mature Mary Sue bearing a considerable portion of his weight. “Worry not for Maedhros, my lady, for valiant Fingon will surely rescue him,” he assured her.

“Nay, he shall not!” she turned to him, gazing earnestly at him with her brilliant emerald eyes which might possibly have been amethyst in another light. “For Fingon has been waylaid, and taken alive! He lies even now in torment next to Maedhros!” She sounded delighted.

“What?” Finrod’s soul quailed in terror at the Mature Mary Sue’s depravity. She had contrived to have all three of them captured and tortured at the same time? This was the last fuzzy thought he had before Mature Mary Sue’s spell overwhelmed him completely.

_  
Meanwhile…  
_  
“You realize, of course, this could only happen to you.” Fingon gave his cousin a Look as the cogs on the rack turned imposibly tighter.

Maedhros glared at his cousin from his upside-down position where he dangled by his ankles. “You are in no position to speak, coz.”

The raven-haired Elf grimaced as the strain increased on his joins, but managed to choke out, “You know we’re only here because of you. Why is it that the torture-ficcers love you so much? What is it about you that makes women need to see you in pain? Why do they desperately want to comfort you?”

The Fëanorian offered no answer as the gibbering orcs surrounding them took up their torment again in earnest.

All they could do now was pray…

 

_  
Taniquetil…  
_  
“Dear…? Dear!”

Manwë looked up from his desk and sighed. Yes, he knew that _The Silmarillion_ had once again fallen into the wrong hands and a very potent Sue had crossed over. But what did anyone expect _him_ to do about it?

“I’m sorry, my wife, but there is nothing I can do. The princes of the house of Finwë have already fallen into her hands. Soon the spell will run its course and they will be free. Just be patient,” he said to Varda, who was hovering over his shoulder.

The Star-Kindler chewed her lip. A policy of inaction did not sit well with her, and she wanted desperately to answer the Elf-lords’ prayers. “Fine,” she said at last. “If you wish to do nothing, then go ahead. I will take this straight to Eru.”

_“What!?”_ Manwë jumped up. He started to try to talk her out of it, but changed his mind. There was no talking Varda out of something when her mind was made up, and she was wearing her My-mind-is-made-up-look. But darn if he didn’t hate it when his wife went over his head!

Varda spun on her heel and gracefully exited the room, leaving Manwë to squint at his papers in the diminished light in her absence. He turned back to his project at hand, a letter-writing campaign lobbying to get Celegorm and Curufin reembodied as women. He quickly put the matter of the Sue out of his mind.

 

 

_  
Shortly thereafter, in the Real World…  
_  
“‘Yes, my love, the only way to free your cousins is to prove our love by lying together,’ she told him in her musical voice…” Mother whispered to herself as she typed the words. She was just getting to the juiciest part when suddenly, the computer screen went blank.

“What? Oh, _no!”_ All the power on the street had gone out, and her precious, unsaved story was lost. “Oh, well,” she said mournfully. “Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be.”

Getting up from her computer desk, mother took the thick volume over to the bookshelf, sliding it reverently between two other dusty volumes, where it then passed out of all knowledge and lay safe, quiet and sleeping for many years…

_  
Tirion upon Túna…  
_  
“My lords, they’re back!”

The servant’s voice joyfully informed the High King and his brother as they paced restlessly in the throne room. The two Elf-lords rushed to greet the three cousins as they staggered wearily into the court, leaning heavily on one another. They had just reappeared only moments ago, just as the greenish sky cleared with the dawn.

“And then, she just vanished! And the next thing I knew, I was back here,” Finrod was telling the other two. He shuddered at the recollection of how close he’d come to losing his virtue to Mature Mary Sue.

“Hmm,” was Maedhros’ response. He was unimaginably grateful that he had been tortured rather than Sued, but the whole episode was something he’d still rather put out of his mind.

The two elder Elves hustled the younger three off to get cleaned up and fed, exchanging happy smiles that neither of them would have to deal with unexpected grandchildren, at least that day. “Cheer up, children!” Finarfin was saying. “As long as _The Silmarillion_ is never made into a movie, it could always be worse!”

“A Elbereth! Gilthoniel! Varda be praised!”

 

 

_  
Taniquetil…  
_  
It was a very satisfied-looking Queen of the Stars who returned to Manwë’s study after dawn. He was still hunched over his letters, and glanced up at the smug sound of her footsteps. Manwë contemplated adding a few more flights of steps to the front walk as he stubbornly waited for her to speak first. She said nothing, and in the end he was unable to wait her out.

“Well, congratulations,” he said at last. “You managed to save them before there were children involved.”

Varda smiled beatifically at her husband. “Yes, Eru is merciful, His will be done,” she replied, cleverly shifting credit away from herself to molify her irked husband.

“Hmm,” was his only reply. Manwë considered making an issue of it for a few moments, then decided to let the matter go. “Here, have a look at this…” He gestured for her to take a look at his current project. “I can’t decide if it would be more amusing if Celegormë had tiny breasts or enormous ones…”

  
__  
The Elf-Lord’s Prayer

Hail, Varda, full of grace,  
Spare us from this Sue’s embrace.  
To our characters let us be true,  
And lead us not unto Mary Sue  
But deliver us from fate so cruel.  
Please make me a hero, or at least very cool.  
But if disaster thou cannot avert,  
Please save me from a self-insert  
For angst or slash I’d much prefer –  
Anything! Anything but her!

 

 

 

THE END  
(for real this time!)


End file.
